


Futility

by Isaac_Wolfe_Grisham



Category: Original Work
Genre: Freeverse, I am in a very negative mood right now, I don't have the right tags for this, Original work - Freeform, Poetry, cynical views
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 02:33:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7872601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isaac_Wolfe_Grisham/pseuds/Isaac_Wolfe_Grisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vent poem. Not much more than that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Futility

All I can think,  
When I look around me,  
Is of oblivion.  
How hopeless and futile human endeavors are.  
As I sit here,  
And think,  
Not of tomorrow's plans,  
But of the far future,  
I say to myself,  
"As much as humanity has existed,  
As much progress we have made,  
There was a time before conscious being,  
And so,  
There will be a time after."

The supposed permanence of rocks,  
As we see it,  
But to the world at large,  
They are as passing to it as a human life.  
We know now that rocks do,  
Indeed,  
Erode with time.  
With elements, weather, trampling feet.

Isn't that all we are?  
Trampling feet and destroyers?  
The ones of which we write so passionately about in the corpses of trees,  
And yet,  
Do not realize as we write that we are the ones destroying our very foundation.

I sit here,  
And I think about how fleeting my own life is.  
My works may transcend me,  
But only as long as humans are here to remember my doings.

My accomplishments do not matter to something as vast as the universe.  
My life, in, and of itself,  
Is futile.  
My body will be buried one day,  
As will every other human fortunate enough,  
Until I am nothing but dust and dirt once more.  
The passage of time grinding my bones to dust.

Even the gods people so desperately cling to,  
Will fall.  
You may live on forever with him,  
But I ask you,  
"What is the point of this continued existence if there is nothing left to live for?"  
And you look at me,  
Mouth agape,  
Then ask me how I can possibly think like that.

My only answer is that I'm a cynic.

I ask,  
My dear reader,  
What the reasoning behind this all is.  
If you think about it,  
Life,  
In itself,  
Is irrational.  
I am an irrational being by nature,  
And yet,  
My words make some form of sense.  
They are dark,  
And best left unsaid,  
But they make sense nonetheless.

Just because someone doesn't like hearing it doesn't mean it's not true.

I'm often told that,  
The way I see things,  
As night-like as it is,  
Is a sign of insanity,  
Or of growing despair.

But all I see,  
Is people,  
Hopeless,  
Trying to hold onto a fleeting hope that one day,  
someday,  
they will mean something.

Humans are taught to fear oblivion.  
And yet, I find nothing to fear.  
It is as inevitable as a coming storm.  
As you try to escape it,  
And indubitably tangle yourself more,  
I find myself welcoming the release.  
I find the storm refreshing,  
As the rain washes away my labelled sin.


End file.
